


Thriller

by kaskaskia_dense



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Band, Depression, Getting Together, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, except its more of a 3+1 things, it's from pete's pov this time see i can evolve, patrick playing piano makes pete gay, the characters that arent in fob are only mentioned sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-11 00:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12311511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaskaskia_dense/pseuds/kaskaskia_dense
Summary: Patrick’s always had that realization-at-midnight, earbuds-hugging-ears, no-expiration-date kind of beauty, in Pete’s eyes at least, but.But.Patrick playing piano takes the fucking cake.





	Thriller

**Author's Note:**

> yikes its another polyfob bc people liked the last one and even though this ones way messier and the ending doesnt really flow well im posting it bc im a procrastinator !!!!!!!!

Patrick’s always had that realization-at-midnight, earbuds-hugging-ears, no-expiration-date kind of beauty, in Pete’s eyes at least, but.

But.

Patrick playing piano takes the fucking cake.

There’s one time where they’re all at Patrick’s house for his birthday, and Pete and Joe keep shushing each other because the cake’s coming out, you gotta be quiet, no you be quiet, no you and William and Brendon are getting ready to sing the birthday song along with Patrick because they’re always the soloists in the school’s chorus for a reason, duh, and Gabe and Ryan and Andy are all rushing to shut off the lights one flick at a time just before Jon and Spencer present the cake. Patrick’s seated at the piano, playing the chords for the song with his fingers bouncing around the keys and his face dancing. He looks really happy, which, okay, Pete’s a little jealous of that happiness, but anyways, he’s playing the piano and he’s absolutely gorgeous.

They finish the song with cheers as Jon and Spencer set the cake gently down on the table next to the piano, and Patrick blows out all the candles in one breath. Pete raises his eyebrows at him, asking what’d you wish for, but Patrick just grins and shakes his head. Pete can’t stop staring at those denim eyes. Fucking—they’re the same color as the blue jeans he’s wearing. This is fucking ridiculous.

They’re cheering once more as Patrick blows all of his candles and Joe fake-shushes Pete again, grinning wide and eyes creased at the ends with a dizzy sort of glee, and a thrill rises in Pete’s throat that he’s scared to acknowledge so he just flattens his mouth into a straight line and stares at nothing across the room. He doesn’t feel bad when Joe collapses into a frown and an awkward tautness in his shoulders. He doesn’t.

Patrick’s house has slippery floors and dark hallways and actual cork billboards on the walls. In every single one of the photos hanging on the walls, the ones of baby Patrick and toddler Patrick and pre-school Patrick, and he has the same exact eyes in each one. Maybe the lighting of the angle’s a bit different in each one but Patrick’s always staring at the camera, blue eyes and all, blue eyes blue eyes blue eyes blue eyes. He’s seen these photos before, but after looking from these faded frames and back to the real life—or rather, current day—Patrick, yeah, he’s definitely one of the most beautiful humans Pete has ever seen.

It might be that Pete has some (okay, a lot of) self-esteem issues regarding his appearance and, um, everything else about himself. But. But! His eyes are still no match for Patrick’s. He’s really gonna have to write a song about them someday. The duality of blue. Or multiplicity. Whatever. He still needs to learn to like his brown, or lie trying.

-

There’s another time during a school concert which Pete wouldn’t have gone to if Patrick hadn’t been practicing all year, forcing his friends to sit in after school to check if he sounded too pitchy or if that one key sounded off or if it were just him. Patrick’s in the choir and band. He plays, like, a billion instruments, but what’s important tonight is that he has a piano solo and Pete can’t stop smiling. He blames it on his pride for Patrick moving beyond Bowie covers.

It’s nearing the end of the show when Patrick walks from the side to his piano, standing beside it a moment to wait for the applause which Pete knows he hates. If he looks closely, he can see blush washing over his face, glaring out from underneath all the stage lights. It’s cute. He’s cute.

When he starts to play, Pete can’t focus on anything else but the black sheen of the piano and Patrick playing connected to it. His fingers are plugged into the keys, flying everywhere and swooping in at the edges and making the song—it’s a slice of a Chopin, Pete thinks—sound like something beyond any of the rest of the high schoolers in this auditorium can even begin to imagine. Okay, well, Pete knows that’s pretentious of him to think, but Patrick just has this effect on him.

The solo finishes with a flair and Patrick stumbling as he pushes the stool to get up and the crowd yelling as loud as his brain. There’s something silent in the way Patrick smiles and walks off that reappears when they’re driving home from the concert, the two of them in the backseat of Pete’s mom’s car on a way to a sleepover at his house trying to convince her to change the station and not really looking at each other but looking in each others’ general areas. If this were a movie, Pete’s sure it’d be the end part where the two characters finally realize their attraction for each other and solve all of their up-until-then-unresolved sexual tension with a kiss. Pete’s sure his life isn’t exactly a romantic comedy, though.

Joe calls him that night, voice shaky and giddy and Pete can hear the smile, and says he and Andy are boyfriends now. 

It’s. Well. It’s interesting.

Pete tells him he’s happy for them and hangs up. He probably doesn’t slam his phone against his bedside table, almost waking up Patrick. (Probably.) He’s not sure what possesses him. He isn’t—he’s not—he isn’t.

He spends the rest of the night thinking about where he’s stuck in this web of relationships he never noticed was slowly twisting around him and also not sleeping. He’s been friends with Joe since the womb. Andy feels like an idol and a savior and a stranger all at once. Patrick’s—well, it’s obvious to him that Patrick’s his soulmate. Duh. Though, he’s pretty sure that Patrick’s everyone’s soulmate, he’s just that perfect. Heavenly handsome, plastic-rimmed glasses and tufted, mousy hair and a voice that feels like a home Pete’s never felt. It’s too weird for him to think about but it’s too weird for him not to think about.

He chooses to sleep, instead, even if he has to take a couple pills and set the window fan on high.

-

There’s one more time when it’s the last day of school and they’re lounging around the band room, Pete and Joe and Patrick and Andy, with Patrick dawdling around the keys of the electric keyboard that’s not the same as the grand piano but it has the same effect on Pete. Joe and Andy are sharing a pack of Sour Patch Kids they bought in the cafeteria and trying to sit on top of each other because there’re no other seats—they’re all stacked up along the walls, since they’re not being used over the summer.

Pete’s been really pissy and touchy and clingy lately, scratching his arms and stitching his eyebrows together and swallowing his gum before a teacher can call him out on it. He tells his parents it’s the heat and all the confusion before the end of school, but his friends know better—well, they don’t really know what’s wrong, but they do know when Pete’s making excuses and when he gets like this. It’s worse around them. He wants to slam and stomp and swear at everything he sees and says but then he’ll see Joe or Patrick or Andy and that same thrill will rise up in his throat, swelling up no matter how much he tries to suppress it, and he can’t help but think it will maybe-possibly-hopefully-someday be okay.

The thing—the fucking thing—is that Pete’s always been the kid fighting his friends in elementary school, the kid who gets called on by the teacher when she knows he hasn’t been paying attention, the kid sleeping instead of eating at lunch. He used to hide comic books under his desk and doodle people getting eaten by monsters with his dirty mechanic pencil he stole from Gabe Saporta. He was the kid who would get his headphones ripped off by the mean kids so he decided to get meaner than them. It’s just the way he’s always been—that’s what his parents say. It’s the thing. 

Andy and Joe are laughing with each other (Pete has to stop himself from thinking they’re laughing at him) and just look so in love, he can’t deal with it. He scowls and scrunches up his face involuntarily and sinks deeper in his chair, trying to block out his heartbeat and the rushing in his ears. His hands warp into fists but he keeps them clamped to the side of his chair, pressing, keeping, frowning.

Patrick, of course, notices. He shoots a questioning look at Pete, head tilted and blue eyes grounded. God, he makes Pete want to write all these ugly metaphors about oceans and Cupid’s arrows and polka-dotted smiles. Fucking rich. The air’s still fine so he takes a deep breath and sends a pleading look back at Patrick. He’s trying to tell him to leave him alone except don’t because he really needs Patrick right now but he would never tell him that, not really, not now.

Patrick, of course, doesn’t understand Pete’s mentally transmitted secret brain messages from just a vague look, so he opts to do something he’s guessing will cheer Pete up: he plays the piano. (Well, keyboard, technically, but shut up.)

It’s a clunky, windowless version of this song they all wrote one time in freshman year. Joe and Andy had a guitar and drum part, Patrick made up the melody, and Pete had written all the lyrics. It was moody and loud and kind of beautiful. Patrick still knows all the words, though, and everything in the room clicks together as he starts to play, chord by chord creeping up on something that might be love.

Pete’s still frowning, but he looks more confused than angry. Joe and Andy have stopped whatever they were doing before and are now silent, both looking and Pete and Patrick, also confused but maybe a bit more welcoming. They cuddle close and absentmindedly run hands over hair and hands, calming and breathing as they listen to Patrick shuffle over a few missed notes and smiling when Pete shakes off his scowl.

Patrick reaches the end of the song, cheeks stinging and eyes straining to keep up and then slow down with his memory. He looks up at Pete and folds into a smile immediately, blush and a high feeling and happy tapping feet. Pete smiles back, if hesitant, and Joe and Andy trip over each other to tell Patrick he did amazing, fucking hell, they really should start a band, holy shit marry me. They all falter a bit at that last one but keep smiling, grinning, and then—

Pete gets up from his chair and hugs Patrick as tight as he can, pressing the curled corners of his mouth into his shoulder. They’re all hugging, soon, and it feels really special and secret but soon enough that thrill rips up Pete’s throat, crashing down in waves of realization and white stripes and black keys. There’s something that feels like nothing shooting up his veins.

They’re not even hugging, anymore. They’re just looking at each other, and it feels like it’s about to get uncomfortable and awkward but they don’t know how or why or when. Joe clears his throat as Andy’s smile fades. No, no, no, Pete doesn’t want this to be over, fuck, it can’t be over, he still needs to—he still needs to. He doesn’t really know what he still needs to do, though. Fuck.

“Thanks, Patrick.”

Patrick knows Pete means it, but there’s something in his expression that works a sign that maybe he wanted something a little more. Pete won’t let himself believe that something would be a little more like a kiss.

-

Gabe and William are throwing an end-of-school party at Gabe’s house. Half of the house is decorated in neon lights and rotating disco balls—probably set up by Gabe—and the other half is full of obscurely flavored sodas and black and red streamers—probably set up by William. Nearly a third of the grade is there, which Pete is a bit thankful for, because he can hide in the crowd, but he’s also cursing Gabe’s long list of friends, because he also likes actually knowing everybody at the party and not having to make small talk. It’s a conflict he’s still struggling with internally when Joe and Andy arrive.

“Hey, dude. Uh, is Patrick here yet?” Joe has an arm slung over Andy’s shoulder. When Pete looks closer he can see that a bit of Andy’s hair is half-braided. He looks cute. Fuck, he shouldn’t be thinking that. But. He is.

“Um, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” The way Joe tries to shrug it off looks fake and chapped. Pete tries to subside the current of dread boiling in his stomach when he sees the two of them. It doesn’t work. Everything feels unfinished and ugly and he hates it.

It’s not, like, a rager or anything. There’s no one there to get wasted or ruin their life or anything. Pete’s—no one in their grade is that desperate yet. It’s a cooled atmosphere where people chat and prop their legs up on chairs and think about how next year’s gonna go. It feels out of place to Pete.

He sees a flash of strawberry blonde hair and a hat pass around the crowds around an hour later and nods to Joe. Joe isn’t looking at him, though.

Another hour passes and Gabe and William start to set up a movie. They’re arguing over Wet Hot American Summer or American Pie when Travie jumps in with Mean Girls, and they choose the compromise over fighting anymore. There’s a projector outside with blankets everyone can lie on, and the radio slowly turns down to a minor hum for anyone who wants to stay inside. Pete, Joe, Andy, and Patrick gradually migrate to each other and end up in a circle on an orange-and-green striped picnic blanket that’s a bit scratchy but something they can deal with.

Joe and Andy are cuddling, and oh, come on, Patrick has to notice Pete’s eyes repeatedly drifting over to the two of them, rife with jealousy and longing and want. He’s too fucking tired to explain anything. Instead, Patrick just chuckles at a joke that Pete just missed and he curls in on himself a little bit more.

The sky dims from a sunset to a scarily dark night, the kind that reminds Pete of birthdays and sleepovers and concerts and that familiar fucking thrill builds up again. Joe and Andy aren’t even paying attention to the movie, they’re just talking and sharing inside jokes and pressing kisses to cheeks. Pete knows the difference between alone and lonely for sure by now.

About halfway through the movie, Pete nudges Patrick and tells him he’s heading inside. Patrick insists that he goes, too, and then Joe and Andy are getting up and there’s no stopping the avalanche that is Pete’s complicated fucking emotions.

The radio’s louder inside. A piano ballad that sounds old and modern and lovesick is on, which, God, Pete really doesn’t need another reason to be thinking about Patrick and being in love, fuck this party. He never wants to hear Elton John or Rihanna or Bach ever again. He’ll keep his Hanson and Danzig and Van Halen all to himself, thank you very much.

“So. Seniors next year, right?” Joe smirks and not-so-subtly shifts his hand into Andy’s. The lights color the sides of his hair and the edge of his voice.

“Yeah,” Patrick chimes in. He doesn’t really look excited. Pete wants to hold him. He doesn’t.

A loud ripple of laughter comes from outside. Something funny must be happening in the movie. Pete doesn’t really want to be here, at all. He’d rather be somewhere where the sun is out and he can smell something that isn’t popcorn and he can imagine himself with Andy and Joe and Patrick without feeling guilt or shame or any of that.

They make small talk for the next couple of minutes. Pete finds himself moving closer and closer to Patrick over time, whether it’s bouncing a leg over an inch or stretching so that his hand meets the pillow behind Patrick’s back. (Cliché, he knows.) He’s missed that kind of contact since the last day of school when they were hugging. Words feel too heavy but the silence is too thick so he opts for touch.

Eventually, he’s resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder and playing with the creases and wrinkles of the brown corduroy couch and trying to not look at Joe or Andy, instead targeting his gaze at the ominous spill of unknown liquid on the carpeted floor. It reminds him of some comic book punch line. The night feels softer, now, now that he’s okay with Patrick and Patrick is okay with him and there’s no piano on the radio. It’s smooth and clean and pleasant, almost, until—

“What do you think of that, Pete?”

Pete looks up at Patrick. He hasn’t been paying attention to the conversation’s trail and his cheeks burn in embarrassment. Patrick’s expression is indecipherable so Pete can’t determine what he’s talking about.

“Think of what?”

“I—what Joe just said.”

Pete swallows. He’s blushing even harder now. He isn’t even that tired, he just wasn’t listening. This feels like school and he hates it.

“What. Did Joe just say. I’m sorry, I wasn’t, like, paying attention, sorry.”

He feels like he’s intruding something he wasn’t meant to hear after all; Andy and Joe exchange a knowing look and Patrick sighs, but he also tugs a gentle hand over Pete’s hair that sprouts both comfort and anxiety between them.

“I was gonna ask if you were interested in me. Like, like me.”

Pete’s stomach drops. That’s it, he’s dead, murdered, killed, tongue is lolling out of his mouth as his eyeballs roll on the cold tiled floor where his bloody corpse lies. He wishes he was invisible and also never went to this party. Joe’s gaze stays steady and tries not to cringe at the fact he said the word “like” twice in a row.

“I—um. Well, see, I. Um. I.” He’s given up on coherency and has resorted to repetition and filler words like the ones he used in a speech he had to give as his grandma’s funeral back in sixth grade. Great. “Of course I like you, you’re my friend.” Nice! If he acts oblivious, he can try to push through all of this and never deal with anything for the rest of the summer. This year is not supposed to be a year of regrets or could’ve-beens. Congratulating his own self-destruction is fucking ridiculous, he knows, but. At least he knows.

Joe snorts but it’s not as lighthearted as it is frustrated. “Well, of course we’re friends, but that’s not—that’s not what I was asking. I think you would know that, Pete.” He knows.

He tries to feign ignorance again. “Well, what were you asking, then?” It comes out strained and pathetic and sharp around the edges.

Joe sighs and looks at Andy again. Andy shrugs and looks at Patrick. Patrick’s been looking at Pete the entire time and suddenly his stare feels too invasive for Pete to handle. There’s another shock of muffled laughter coming from the outside, making Pete wonder if the right word for that is juxtaposition or just contrast.

“Pete,” and it’s Patrick who’s speaking up again, frowning a bit down at him and maybe a bit too close to kiss. His head is turned so that he’s looking straight at Pete who is still resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder and it’s all too close too close too close too close too close. Something whistles from the ventilation system behind the couch; Gabe should probably get that fixed. Pete would close his eyes but again, too close too close too close.

“I’m—I like all of you guys. You’re my friends.”

“But you don’t like us like you like Gabe or William or Brendon or Ryan, right?”

Someone’s eyebrow twitches up. Pete blinks.

“No.”

It sneaks out of his mouth without warning, no bright red stoplights or countdowns or turn signals or key changes. He’s not sure if he whispered or shouted it, whether it would matter in the long run, whatever the long run is.

“So—can I—“ There’s something pulling in the undertone of Patrick’s voice that Pete doesn’t really like. Frustration that fucks with his contemplation. It smears already-faded confusion over everything they’ve just said.

“Can you what.” No question. Morbid curiosity, maybe. That sounds like Pete.

“Can I kiss you?”

It’s all Pete’s been thinking about since that birthday party, since the concert, since the last day of school, him kissing Patrick and Patrick kissing him and maybe even them kissing Joe and Andy but that was more of a stretch than Pete’s imagination could handle so he didn’t dare lapse into that. He wants to kiss them all so bad, gentle kisses on foreheads and half-serious gentlemanly kisses to outstretched hands and heated kisses with gross teenage tongues and all and kisses that make him fall in love even more even when he’s sure he’s been all in since the start. There’s no crowd outside or passing witness or fucked up ventilation system to interrupt this moment now which makes Pete a bit scared but way more excited (but also scared) but also excited (but also scared!) but _excited._

“Yeah.”

They only have to shift their heads a little bit forwards and to the side to kiss which makes Pete only think up more cheesy metaphors, this time involving oceans and sweet chocolates and friendly skies.

Kissing Patrick is, like, great, and he’s not sure why he hasn’t thought of it before.

He knows that Joe and Andy are still watching, which totally definitely one hundred fucking percent does not make him grab Patrick’s arm a little tighter and gasp a little louder when they finally come up for air. He’s just, they’re right there and could totally be looking away or something or maybe getting up to have their own private time together but they’re not, they’re staying—not even that, they’re staying and _watching_ , which makes his cheeks burn hotter the more he thinks about it.

It’s been, like, a solid minute of bliss and Patrick and nice kissing fun times when Patrick pulls away and Pete involuntarily whines. His face is definitely past the fire-truck-red zone and approaching the bleeding scarlet of those vampires Gerard liked to draw in art class.

“I think. I think we should ask them if they want to join in.” It’s a thin whisper in Pete’s ear that feels secret and intimate and something from an unwritten song. He knows Joe and Andy can’t hear it because they’re still staring the same before, not making a move and not even trying to hear. The way the thrill streaks up his throat is furious.

He can only nod in agreement. Then Patrick’s biting his lip and looking at Joe and Andy with in invitation in his expression, and Pete realizes this is all real and happening and Andy’s crawling into his lap and Joe’s right in front of Patrick and that thrill doesn’t seem so scary anymore. The curtains have been drawn between the windows leading to the outside for a while now; the only thing he can hear is the rustle of jeans and hats and boys taking off jackets and those sounds Joe keeps making that reminds him why he was their first choice to sing that song, anyways.

It’s ridiculous. Patrick hasn’t even played piano tonight. But that never ended well for Pete, so. This feels less of a culmination or a climax and more of a summation of suppressed wants and acceptance. This feels—this feels good.

Pete smiles into his first kiss with Andy. He deserves it.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, please leave kudos and a comment if u enjoyed it/think i should write more polyfob/both!


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